


Game

by PaperRevolution



Series: The Opposite of Prodigal [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Family, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 19:18:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12327156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperRevolution/pseuds/PaperRevolution
Summary: Maglor's brothers are playing a game. Maglor doesn't want to play.





	Game

There is a game the children like to play.

At first, naturally, it is Caranthir’s idea.

“Let’s play soldiers!” he suggests, one bright day when there is nothing much to do. Playing soldiers is not unusual; Caranthir likes games involving lots of running and shouting and waving pretend weapons about. But then— “Let’s pretend we’re hunting Him!”

Now this—this is not a game they have played before.

Maglor looks up sharply from his book.

“Come on,” wheedles Caranthir, all of seven years old, sprawled languidly on the dry grass. “I’m bored.”

Please don’t, Maglor thinks, without quite knowing why. Please don’t. Something about the idea makes him feel all funny, like a small but very determined animal is trying to climb up his spine.

“Well, someone’s got to be Him, if we’re doing that,” says Celegorm, and Maglor’s heart sinks a little. “You’re the biggest, Maitimo; you be it.”

“No chance,” replies Maedhros. He stops what he’s doing, though, deftly catching the small, bright blue ball he’s been idly throwing higher and higher into the air, and dropping it to the hard earth. “Kurvo can be Him. He’s good at doing voices.”

Curufin pulls a dire face. “How do I know what He sounds like?”

Maedhros shrugs fluidly. “Just do an evil voice. You do it to the twins enough.”

This makes Curufin’s eyes gleam. A grin itches across his face. He scrambles to his feet.

“First one to catch me wins a Medal of Valour!” he says.

* * *

Maglor hates the game.

He hates the voice that Curufin affects for Him; hates the way it seems to slither over his skin, making him cold all over. He hates the fevered light in his other brothers’ eyes as they give chase, whooping and yelling and jostling.

He hates how real the fear is, twisting in his gut, as he runs.

One day, he surprises himself.

“I don’t want to play,” he announces, right after breakfast, when his parents have quit the table to do whatever grown-ups do on slow summer mornings. He takes a tiny sip of orange juice and wills himself to remain composed.

Caranthir makes an irritated noise, but it’s Curufin who looks at him over the dregs of his porridge and says, in a cool voice:

“Why not? Do you want to stay inside, with the twins? Are you a baby, like them?”

Maglor feels himself flush. He picks up his glass again, but does not drink.

Then:

“I’m not playing, either.”

Gratitude swells like a bubble in his chest.

Two dark heads and one fair swivel in unison to look at their eldest brother.

“I’m too old for games like that, now,” says Maitimo loftily, despite the fact that Maglor is certain he’s dying to be outside wreaking havoc with the others.

Caranthir looks incredulous. “You weren’t too old yesterday! You’re not eleven yet!”

This, for some reason, makes Maedhros laugh. “Yes, well,” he says, catching Maglor’s eye, “Time is a very strange thing.” This is something their mother says, and as usual, it elicits a derisive snort from Celegorm and a wrinkled nose from Curufin.

Celegorm drops an apple-core onto his plate and shoves his chair back. “Do what you want,” he says. And then, eagerly; importantly, “I get to be the General now! I’m the oldest now!”

He races for the door, tailed by Curufin and a protesting Caranthir (“But it’s my game!”).

“Bye bye,” Amras, porridge on his face and in his hair, waves a small hand at their retreating backs.

And Maglor smiles.


End file.
